


Tuesday afternoons with Sherlock

by macgyvershe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, funny i hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 20:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macgyvershe/pseuds/macgyvershe
Summary: It's Tuesday afternoons. Everyone in the UK knows about Tuesday afternoons with Sherlock. Now you do to. Fluffy fun. Short, but very sweet. Funny too.





	

“John?” Sherlock’s large bed is empty. Sitting up and rummaging around his laser brain, he remembers it is Tuesday. John is at the morgue with Molly pulling case notes from autopsies of the past week. Damn. He’d over slept. {Prodigious sex will do that to you}, he thinks.

Giving his brain too much down time, allows mental rust to accumulate, then it has to be scoured clean with great swathes of high grade, caustic verbosity which Sherlock finds extremely satisfying.

Showering, tending to his few needs with a promptness and precision that would have made his military prone partner weep with joy. Sherlock contemplates John. How he loves to please John. The act is tantamount to climbing Everest for the first time or being the very first man on the moon. Why is Sherlock in such a grand state of unparalleled anticipation of pleasure? It is Tuesday and everyone knows that Tuesday afternoons is strictly John and Sherlock time. No one, not the Yarders, not the criminally inclined; none dared to interfere or interrupt this sacrosanct activity.

The door bell rings downstairs, Sherlock takes his wallet and the prior warming basket down to paid the nice young man who delivers fresh from the oven scones in the current warming basket. Upstairs Sherlock goes, the kettle is filled and positioned; the jellies, jams and dark honey were placed on the coffee table in the sitting room. Finally, Sherlock works his magic on the flat itself. Tiding and fluffing, it’s made to resemble the functional home where two men spend most of their time when not hot on the trail of criminal masterminds or dyed in the wool baddies. Finally, everything is set to rights.

Sherlock’s mobile chimes an incoming text.

{{Running late, home in 10 mins. J}}

Why didn’t he call, Sherlock wondered? Why text if there were time to call. Odd? Entering the bathroom, he tries once again to tame his rambunctious hair. It did look splendid when fluffy, but his hair, having a mind of its own, tended to go crazy with the fluff. Looking more like an exploded mattress and less like sexy Sherlock.

Settling into his favorite leather chair, he starts to read two books at a once. Bancroft’s ‘Theory and Practice of Histological Techniques’ and ‘The Essentials of Strange and Unusual Autopsy Practices’ would go down well. The minutes ticked by, each and every one scratching a tiny scar upon Sherlock’s fragile little stone of patience.

Finally a key in the main door slides in and opens the lock. Light steps bounce up the stairs with a gentle step upon the squeaky stair at mid point. John is home. Praise whatever gods may be and put the kettle on to boil.

Smiling a sunshine smile, John uses his foot to nudge the door open and brings in what appears to be a heavy canvas carry all. “I’ve got something for you, Sherlock. Tissue samples and detritus from that cold case you were interested in.” Sherlock’s eyes light up and John reaches over the bag and ruffles Sherlock’s nearly tamed hair.

“Didn’t think I’d forget our anniversary, did you?” John adds a wooden box of glass slides with various blood samples permanently affixed to them. And to top everything off, the dead remains of a rare fly larva in many different stages of pupation, floating in preservative liquids, all in small glass vials on little wooden racks. Incredibly over the top with joy Sherlock grins like the proverbial Cheshire cat. This for Sherlock is better than any imaged Christmas.

“John, you shouldn’t have, but I’m so glad you did.” Sherlock delights in the many gifts that John offers as the kettle calls.

“I’ll get it.” John pulls off his coat hanging in on the door hook as he enters the kitchen to pour the tea and take the scones from the warm oven. He turns to ask Sherlock if he wants anything else and Sherlock is right there behind him.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock says with deep sincerity. “I don’t say it often enough. You please me so much, you understand me so well.” Sherlock embraces John, who is swallowed up in those extra long arms and that extra tall body. The scent of Sherlock is intoxicating and John wants to stay in that warmth; that love and those sensual feelings that engulf him and give him such pleasure. This is home and hearth, this is where he wants to be. Always.

“I should drag dead things home more often,” he whispers.

“John.” The sexy in Sherlock’s voice liquefies John’s resolve to resist the consulting detective’s charms.

John turns slowly in that welcomed embrace. Capturing those sensual lips. John kisses Sherlock ferociously. Sherlock is tempted to bring this activity back to their bed. Yet observations reveal that John is truly hungry. The scones aren’t going to cut it.

Pulling out his mobile, he one hand dials for take away, while still holding John. Punching in his order. The convenience of modern modalities isn’t lost on Sherlock.

“Take away coming?” John asks. Not letting go of his lover, friend and complete terror to the known world, except John, of course.

“Eighteen minutes, 58 seconds.” Sherlock whispers. When the door bell rings, Mrs. Hudson gets it. Paying off the delivery person. Sherlock gives her a weekly allowance to pay for said incoming food stuffs. She sits the bags on the little table in the entrance hall and goes back to her TV programs.

Sherlock dashes downstairs to retrieve fragrant food and hurries back up to John.

(-_-)

The smell of wonderfully seasoned Tai food fills 221B. Even Sherlock feels his tiny stomach gnawing on itself in appreciation of the succulent aromas. John gets plates and cutlery. Food is de-boxed into appropriate dishes. Life is good. Eating takes up time and space. All is right with the world.

(-_-)

“I can’t believe you ate all that.” John says with eyebrows raised in appreciation of the aforementioned behavior. “Must be the prodigious sex.”

“Are we calling it prodigious now?” Sherlock questions.

“You were the instigator of that particular word. As I remember.” John looks mildly amused.

Sherlock takes a deep cleansing breath. Leveling his laser like deduction skills at his lover, flatmate and prodigious sex provider.

“I do believe you are correct there.” He admits, trying to suppress the beginnings of a giggle and failing miserably. “I’ve never experienced prodigious sex before you, John. It has been beyond boring, beyond idiotic, beyond excruciatingly abhorrent before you.”

“I’m a lucky sod then.” John comes in close for a sealed with a kiss moment.

“Actually, I think I’m the luckiest entity alive at this moment.” Sherlock says sincerely. “I’ve found the only man in all this world who is my perfect fit...I mean partner.”

John smirks. “You’re just saying that to butter my toast. I know what you are up to Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am up to no good when it comes to you, John.”

“Well it is Tuesday afternoon.” John admonishes.

“Right you are.” Sherlock grins like a demon. His mobile chirps. Its Lestrade’s ringtone. “For fuck’s sake.” Sherlock breathes fire. He lifts the mobile and listens to Lestrade’s tale of woe.

Looking at the photos coming across his mobile, Sherlock focus’ on each one momentarily before he swipes it to the next.

“Sherlock, it’s Tuesday. Bloody Tuesday afternoon, love.”

Sherlock sits up straight and gives John a knowing look. “Not to worry John.” He says as he puts the mobile on speaker.

“I know it’s Tuesday, Sherlock, but this one is a high profile case and I think it needs your particular type of observational skill set.” Lestrade sounds a bit worried about disturbing the consulting detective and his prodigious lover. 

John is now giving Sherlock a stare that would peel the chrome off a Jaguar XF. Sherlock side eyes John with a growing concern for his emanate demise at the hands of his infuriated prodigious lover.

“How many people were in the house at the time of the murder?” He requests.

“Twelve.” Lestrade replies. “Not one of them heard or saw a thing.”

“Ask them if they smelled something out of the ordinary. But make sure you do it one by one. The person who says they didn’t smell a thing. That is your murderer. Case solved and we didn’t have to leave the flat.”

Lestrade clicks off to go and arrest his murderer.

Sherlock turns to John who has gone from Threat Level Critical back down to the more reasonable Threat Level Low.

John smiles, then guffaws, then smacks Sherlock hard on the shoulder closest to him.

Sherlock rubs the offended flesh and crinkling his brow, looks askance at John.

“That was cruel.” He states with wounded pride.

“You were actually thinking about going to the crime scene, weren’t you?”

“For a millisecond, yes. But in my defense I had just eaten most of the carbohydrates, vegetables and protein from a plate that was laden with double portions. You must stop doing that, John. I’ll become porcine. You wouldn’t want to deprive me of your prodigious sex, would you?”

“No. No I wouldn’t. Truthfully, though, I would love you in any shape, color or configuration that you could possibly transform into.”

Sherlock’s lips twitch, becoming that almost, but not quite comical V shape that he can sometimes produce.

John can’t help himself. He is kissing those kissable lips. He is lifting those liftable hips and he is transporting his favorite transport into their bedroom. The door is close and locked. The clothes are removed with the speed and accuracy of man in an extreme stage of lust, arousal and sexual prodigiousness.

(-_-)

Down stairs, Mrs. Hudson turns her music up rather loudly. Not enough to disturb the neighbors. She adjusts it to her liking. The music will slightly enhance the sounds of love making that will permeate her little flat. The beautiful baritone and the vibrant tenor will be heard as the music of love plays on and on and ever onward. She smiles and takes up her Sudoku. She's not going to time this session. She smiles as the Tuesday Afternoon with Sherlock is in full swing.


End file.
